Force of Nature
by ChasingPerfectionTomorrow
Summary: In which the Herald has a teenage son and Cullen makes some unfortunate assumptions.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** What can I say? Inquisitor with a kid was a thing that popped into my head and wouldn't leave me the hell alone. The Rape/Non-con warning is for later chapters, I doubt it will be graphic but I feel I should put the warning out there now.

* * *

"She has… a _child_? Are you sure?" Cullen was having some difficulty wrapping his mind around the concept. It was the last thing he had expected to hear when Leliana and Cassandra came barreling into the Chantry after their trip up the mountain. In truth, Cullen hadn't entirely expected to see them again alive. For once, he was happy to be wrong.

Leliana threw him an exasperated look as she paced before the large table in the War Room, gloved fists clenching and unclenching at her sides; Cullen had never seen her so agitated. Her clothing was dirty and torn and her eyes tired with a simmering grief that seemed to be barely held in check. It had been a long day, an insane day, the world had ended and only they remained to pick up the pieces.

 _And what a sorry bunch we are_ , he thought dismally.

"Of course I'm sure! And I wouldn't call the boy a child; he was fourteen summers at least. We'd just laid the woman down for the healer and were discussing what we should do next when the boy burst in yelling 'Mother! Mother!' at the top of his lugs. He began shaking her by the shoulders so Cassandra was forced to pull him away. Took an age to calm him enough to confirm what was already quite obvious, kept insisting that we must have harmed her in some way. A stubborn boy, but clearly very devoted to her."

Cullen tried to reconcile this new information with the brief memory he had of the woman in question –the woman the people in Haven had already begun to call 'The Herald of Andraste. His memory was burdened by shock and fear and his desperation to defend, but he recalled a pale aristocratic face, a shock of red hair, and wide yellow-green eyes. She'd seemed young… younger, at least, than himself.

"How old is she?" he blurted out, the filter between his brains and mouth apparently gone in the face of exhaustion and desperation.

Cassandra huffed. "We hardly took the time to ask her, Cullen, we had far more pressing matters at hand. Though she did ask, before we began our trek up the mountains, if anyone in Haven had been injured and she seemed very relieved that no harm had come to anyone within the village."

"Many women have children," Josephine said, frowning at them in confusion. "I don't know that I understand the concern."

Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana exchanged a look. Eventually, the Seeker spoke for them. "It… _complicates_ things. We've proven that her mark can close rifts, now we must find a way to close the Breach. You saw what today did to her –closing the Breach may very well kill her. It is difficult to ask that of anyone, let alone a mother who has a responsibility to her child."

Leliana sighed and swept a hand over her face as though she might be able to wipe the day's events away. "We have little choice in the matter, or so it would seem. We can't know more till she wakes. _If_ she wakes."

The mood darkened, which Cullen would have previously believed impossible. All their hopes, it seemed, rested with one mysterious woman. He felt terribly hopeless.

* * *

The Herald woke two days later.

Leliana called a meeting and Cullen waited anxiously in the War Room, staring beseechingly at the little wooden and metal figures that denoted their meager forces and delicate plans across a worn map of Thedas, wishing they would come to life and tell him something, anything of use. He looked South, toward Honnleath, and thought, not for the first time, of the path which had led him here, of the boy who had once been so eager to serve, to escape his small village and his family's modest farm. There was little of that boy left; the Order, the path which he'd believed in, no longer existed, if it ever had at all. For a bright moment the Inquisition had seemed his chance at redemption, at finding a new and brighter path, now everything seemed cast in darkness and uncertainty.

He sighed deeply and prayed to the Maker that their unlikely savior would be willing and able to help them. Perhaps the Maker had finally played his hand and sent them someone who could set the world back on its proper axis.

The door opened a moment later and she swept into the room like a force of nature. Cullen took in her carefully neutral features, her graceful gait, and his heart sank. She was lovely and delicate in the way noble women often are, and she held herself with an air of one who was used to the world behaving in a manner she expected. She wore a simple woolen dress, her hair braided and coiled into a neat mass atop her head, every inch a lady despite the simplicity of her attire.

A young man trailed after her, face and stature defiant, his hair the same bright red as his mother's, though his eyes were darker. The lad was tall but lanky, still gangly with the last vestiges of childhood that clung to cheeks and arms, but Cullen -who had something of an eye for such things- thought he would grow to be a strong man indeed. Still, she seemed too young, too soft, likely not even in her thirties and certainly not old enough to have a son nearly grown. There was a story there, though he supposed it hardly mattered. She could be an abomination and still they would need her.

Cassandra and Leliana were right behind the pair with Josephine trailing after, scribbling something furiously on a bit of parchment.

Cassandra wasted no time.

"You remember Commander Cullen, I presume," she said and the woman inclined her head slightly in greeting. Her eyes were sharp, questing, as though she were attempting to divulge his secrets as she sized him up with a glance.

Cullen cleared his throat, swallowing his disappointment. The last thing they needed was some delicate courtier; they needed someone strong, resilient, who knew how to take care of themselves and help others –help _them_ , for Maker's sake. The woman standing so demurely before them was likely used to a household of servants, accustomed to never having to stoop so low as to dirty her own hands with such menial things as _living_. He had the feeling whatever transpired from this moment would hardly involve fine carriages and afternoon tea parties.

He forced himself to smile and said, "It was only for a moment, but I am glad to see that you are alive, Lady…"

"Trevelyan," Cassandra said, somewhat snappish. He thought she was likely as thrilled by their current prospects as he.

"Janessa," the woman said. Her voice was soft, musical, but it held an edge, the barest trace of a challenge. "And this is my son, Ruan." The boy bowed a bit, his stern eyes sweeping the room as though expecting one of them to leap after him or his mother at any moment. Cullen wondered if it was merely the hot-bloodedness of youth or something else, something bred of unfortunate experience. Questions, always more questions and hardly any answers.

Cassandra proceeded to formally introduce the others in the room before getting directly to the matter at hand.

"We must close the Breach," she said sternly, fist banging lightly on the table. "The Chantry has abandoned us, accused everyone here of heresy, they will be of little help to us now. We cannot go to either the Mages or Templars, both are too busy fighting each other despite the hole in the sky and we seem to have little means to bridge the gap."

"There is a Chantry mother in the Hinterlands who wishes to speak to the Herald of Andraste," Leliana said quietly from her corner of shadows and dancing torch light, masking her features in a myriad of twisting shapes and impressions. "She believes she has a way to garner support from the Chantry."

Cullen frowned. It was late, past dinner, and a headache was brewing behind his eyes. "The Hinterlands is a war zone. Rouge Templars and Mages roam the wilds, fighting each other with little regard to those who get in their way." What he didn't say was that he highly doubted such a place was something their 'Herald' could handle.

Leliana shrugged. "What choice do we have?" And that, he supposed, was the crux of the matter. This woman was likely not who any of them would have chosen, but Andraste nor the Marker nor whatever twisted artificer of fate had created such an anomaly, had asked them what they wanted when providing them with the means of their salvation. They would have to make the best of what they had been given.

"She's right," Josephine said with a sigh. "No one else is willing to speak with us. We must try."

"We will go," Lady Trevelyan said calmly. "We will do whatever we can to help."

Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm not sure you understand the implications of what traveling there entails-"

He broke off as her gaze swept over him, cold and unflinching. "I understand the implications of a massive tear within the fabric of our reality, Commander, and that I hold the key to closing it," she said in the same calm voice. She raised a delicate hand, a jagged mark across the palm. "I do not know if I have been chosen by Andraste or if I am merely the product of a plan gone awry. My father and sister were within the Temple and I owe it to them to do all I can to ensure their deaths are not in vain. "

Cullen felt a stab of shame, regretting perhaps, some of his unkind assumptions. Even Cassandra looked somewhat mollified as she stared hard at the map before them, as though hoping, as he had, that some other solution might present itself. The silence hung heavy for a few long moments before Josephine cleared her throat delicately.

"As Commander Cullen said, the Hinterlands are dangerous and it would perhaps be best if your son stayed behind in Haven while you met with this sister."

The boy –Ruan- glared, crossing his arms over his chest, and said nothing. The Herald smiled slightly. "I appreciate your concern Lady Montilyet, but my son goes where I go. I will not leave him behind in the company of strangers."

"You can trust us," Cullen offered, alarmed by the idea she would knowingly place her son in such danger.

Again, her eyes swept over him and somehow they made him feel small, foolish even. There was a deep well of intelligence and perception there that he –they- should all be wary of. "I appreciate the sentiment, Commander, but I do not know any of you well enough to entrust the care of that which matters most to me in this world. I have lost all that remains of my family, I will not risk the loss of my son. Ruan and I can take care of ourselves, I assure you." She made no mention of a husband, something he noted quietly in the back of his mind.

Cullen couldn't quite stop the look of disbelief that he was certain was plastered across his face. He was relieved to see that Cassandra wore a similar expression; Leliana remained swathed in shadow, her thoughts unreadable. Their spy master had stayed remarkably quiet throughout the exchange.

Josephine tittered nervously. "I believe that is enough for the evening. We've all had a trying few days and the Herald certainly needs her rest. We can solidify our plans of the Hinterlands tomorrow."

The Herald nodded slightly and exchanged a glance with her son. "Thank you, Lady Montilyet, Seeker Pentaghast, Commander Cullen," she said politely, and left with her head held high. Ruan's eyes scanned them all, his gaze nearly as intelligent and perceptive as his mother's, before following after without having spoken a single word. Cullen thought Leliana had guessed wrong; the boy was likely no older than twelve, but was large for his age.

Cassandra left immediately after, brow furrowed in deep thought and, apparently, had nothing to say to anyone either. Cullen could imagine how she must feel; of everyone within their fledging order, he thought he and the Seeker understood one another best.

Soon only he and Leliana remained -Josephine having excused herself, muttering distractedly under her breath. The woman peeled herself from the shadows and Cullen was shocked to see she was _smiling_.

"What on earth are you so happy about," he demanded, beyond frustrated.

Leliana chuckled and her eyes twinkled with an emotion Cullen couldn't place. "Be careful you do not judge our Herald too quickly, that woman will be a force to reckon with."

She was gone before Cullen could formulate an adequate response to what was likely the most insane thing he'd heard all day, and that was saying a great deal.

He looked down again at the map of Thedas and tried very hard not to think of all the lives he was certain depended on them.

"Maker, help us."


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen woke as he so often did; sweating and shaking, with the scent of blood, smoke, and Sulphur burning in his nostrils like a living thing, threatening to completely unravel the threads of his sanity. The echoes and screams and harsh cries reverberated in his skull like the keel of a bell, building then receding as though he were leaving a demon yelling and crying after him somewhere in the distance of his mind.

He sat up in his cot and held his head loosely in his hands, sweat dripping between his fingers, until the world stopped spinning and his stomach settled. When he felt able, he rose, toweled himself off, and began to meticulously and methodically dress himself. The habit of securing his armor helped to clear the lingering bits of the nightmare that clung to the insides of his mind like blood on stone; he pointedly ignored the slight tremor in his fingers that was more common than not these days as he combed his hair into order. When he was done, he felt mostly like himself again.

He grabbed his sword, buckled it about his waist, and then knelt at his bedside. He knelt there for some time, his mind cast adrift, listless and without a course, before finally he muttered a prayer more out of habit than any really hope that his pleas would be heard and answered. He rose, feeling cold and hollow, and steeled himself as best he could for the day ahead.

It was just after dawn when he reached the training grounds.

The area was blanketed in a light dusting of snow, the rising sun glowing like flecks of gold and silver where the downy flakes fell in light drifts over Haven. A hush had fallen over the world, the quiet before the storm, the deep inhale before the plunge; there was an expectant charge in the air, a promise of something to come. Cullen felt as though they were teetering on the brink of something fragile and unsteady, something that would come crumbling down around them if he took one misstep.

His Captains were waiting for him, speaking to one another in hushed voices until they saw him approach. They came to swift attention and their breath was visible in the frozen morning air, obscuring their faces behind a veil of fine lace. He gave his orders for the day, discussing their newest training exercises and what they might expect from their upcoming expedition to the Hinterlands. Their men weren't ready, still untried and only partially trained, but they had little choice in the matter. Cullen ordered scouts sent ahead and indicated a likely spot for their main forward camp.

With the sun spilling over the peaks of the Frostbacks, he then met with their brusque Quartermaster and helped to sort through which supplies could be spared in the undertaking –they had precious little as it was- and then visited the local blacksmith to see how they might feasibly go about providing weapons for an army. Neither visit was terribly productive or promising but, as always, he would make the best of what he had been given.

Eventually he retired to his office inside the Chantry and began undertaking what he hated most in the world: reports. There seemed to be an endless stream of parchment that required his attention and the words would blend together until he'd have to lean back in his chair and blink for several moments before he could resume reading. Before he could force his weary mind to comprehend, to _think_ about what needed to be done. Several times his thoughts drifted to the Lady Trevelyan and it did little for his mood or his near constant headache.

Leliana found him at some point near mid-day and placed a platter of bread and cheese directly over the report he'd been reading. He blinked up at her as though he wasn't entirely sure she was real.

"Eat," she said harshly. "You've a habit of skipping meals." She said nothing else and departed as silently as she'd come.

Cullen ate –after sliding his report free- hardly tasting the food at all. He knew better than to ignore a direct order from their Nightingale.

A few hours later the pain in his temples wouldn't allow his eyes to focus on the pages any longer and he rose with the intention of stepping outside for a spell, just long enough to clear his head. He thought perhaps he would check on the training of their newest recruits, praying this batch would be better than the last. Since the decimation of the Temple of Sacred Ashes they'd been receiving volunteers - and refugees- daily, people desperate for some sense of direction and security. With the Chantry in shambles, the Mages and Templars at one another's throats, people had precious little to place their faith in.

He stepped outside, lost in thought, and was waylaid by Chancellor Roderick.

"A word, Commander," the man asked, his tone impatient, condescending. Cullen suppressed a groan of irritation.

"What can I do for you, Chancellor?" he managed.

"Is it true that you mean to support this strange woman, this _heretic?"_

Cullen glanced about surreptitiously, quietly wishing Cassandra, Leliana, or better yet, Josephine would happen by and rescue him. Unfortunately he and the Chancellor appeared to be entirely alone, not another person in sight beyond the Chantry doors, which was notably odd but not entirely uncommon.

"Lady Trevelyan managed to close all the rifts leading up to the mountain, it stands to reason that she will be able to close the Breach as well. We need her, it's as simple as that."

"Have you considered that she might make things even _worse?_ We barely understand that mark on her hand, we've only the word of some wandering _apostate_ ," Roderick spat this last word, his pallid face growing blotchy in the cold. Cullen thought now might not be the best time to point out that _all_ mages were apostates.

Cullen clenched his fists to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in agitation. Instead he drew in a long breath. "Be that as it may, we have very few other options at present-"

"This so called 'Herald of Andraste' should be brought before the Chantry and judged properly. We still have no idea who killed the Divine, this woman could be the cause of all this disaster and you lot have let her run wild and free right beneath our noses." The Chancellor threw his hands up in disbelief and Cullen wondered at the man's intentions, why he clung so desperately to convention when everything about the law and order of his world had collapsed. Cullen supposed that maybe that was all a man like Roderick could hang onto in the face of such a tragedy. When in doubt, cling to that which has already broken in hopes it might somehow resemble itself. Hadn't he done the same once?

"Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast have spoken to the woman at length, they seem convinced of her intentions. She comes from a good family and seems very willing to help," Cullen said with as much patience and understanding as he could muster. Never mind that he had his own tower of doubts where Lady Trevelyan was concerned, but he knew if they had any hope of forging her into a symbol of their order that he would be required to defend their position and hers many, many times. He would keep his doubts to himself, for the moment.

"And what of her child? The lad is nearly grown and she is but a young woman herself with no husband to speak of, her remaining family conveniently scattered or dead. There is foul play afoot, Commander, you must not blind yourself to it. You're a Knight-Captain in the Templar order, surely you can sense blasphemy and sacrilege in this so called _Inquisition._ "

At the words _Knight-Captain_ the faintest echoes of desperate screams tinkled through the air like a siren song of terror. Cullen clenched the hilt of his sword, the familiar leather and metal grounding him, lending him the strength of cold steel. "I left the order, Chancellor, because they have lost their way. What I saw at Kirkwall cannot be cast aside and ignored. The Templars seem more concerned at hunting and torturing mages than in seeking peaceful compromise. There is a massive hole in the Fade, demons running free, and they turn a blind eye. The only thing in this world that makes any sort of sense to me now is the Inquisition. It is our only hope for restoring peace, it is what Divine Justina wanted."

Cullen turned sharply on his heel and left him; he had nothing further to say and his temper was already fraying at the edges. Roderick called something after him but he ignored it entirely, focusing instead on placing one boot before the other as his soles crunched in the snow. He pictured his battered lyrium box at the bottom of the chest in his chambers and nearly sobbed aloud.

Maker, how his head hurt.

He was nearly to the training grounds, head down and ears ringing, before he heard and comprehended the commotion unfolding around him.

Soldiers and peasants alike were standing around the outside of the wooden fence line, some perched on the rails themselves, cheering or throwing out encouragements or insults with unabashed enthusiasm. Cullen was momentarily stunned by the display; how could his Captain's allow such disorder and insubordination? He caught sight of Captain Hershel and Captain Brand cheering and smiling among the soldiers and his temper flashed white hot; he'd have them all running in full armor till they dropped.

His furry was tempered somewhat by the unlikely sight of Cassandra standing beside Varric and the Herald. She was smiling –which was strange all on its own-, albeit sardonically, at something the dwarf said as he stood on the lowest rung of the fence. Cullen made a beeline toward them. The Herald stood among the people of Haven like a woman apart; the men gave her a modest berth but he could tell from their lingering gazes and postures that it was out of respect and awe rather than disdain. She wore the same gray woolen gown, her flaming hair carefully plaited and pinned, but as he stepped to one side he found himself frozen by the look on her face.

Lady Trevelyan was smiling softly, just the slightest upturn of her full lips, but it had transformed her face. Her eyes -the memory of them so cold, so calculating and distant- were warm and glowing with some deep emotion. The chilled afternoon breeze tossed wisps of her hair across her angular cheeks, the sun warming the pale skin like a caress, and Cullen felt as though he were looking at some ethereal woman of song. She looked peaceful, content, so unlike the guarded creature from the night before.

The spell was broken by the bodily crash of steel on steel and a thunderous roar from the gathered crowd. Cullen blinked and finally got a good look at just what everyone was gawking at from between Cassandra's and the Herald's shoulders.

He could hardly comprehend what he was seeing. As he watched, the Herald's son dodged the swing of a sword delivered by one of his men –a large man, an aging but competent solider- with all the grace and fluidity of a snake, slipping to one side and dancing out of reach. The man turned and swung again and this time, as the boy dodged, he leapt into the air with a cry. Ruan brandished a wooden sword as the sun seemed to catch and hold him in midair, his hair lit from behind like a flame, before he crashed into the much larger man like a battering ram. The soldier –Varen or Varel was his name- collapsed like a crumbling tower and another roar swept through those gathered. It was an impossible feat and a dangerous one at that. Despite having seen it with his own eyes, he couldn't quite believe he'd witnessed it.

"Commander Cullen!" Captain Brand said suddenly, his voice an octave or two higher than usual, realizing, belatedly, that Cullen was among them. The Soldiers nearest him spun around and quieted immediately. They paled visibly and came to stark attention.

"That's enough lads," Captain Hershel barked hoarsely, his face red with embarrassment under his bushy mustache and patchy beard. "Back to work!"

His men scrambled about him like an agitated anthill and were dispersed in record time -even the man who had, miraculously, been toppled by a young boy, managed to scramble away. It left Cullen feeling faintly like a stern parent disrupting his wayward, but well meaning children.

"We will talk of this later, Captain," he growled and the man swallowed thickly and cut a sharp salute before stalking off to reprimand a group of recruits struggling to lift a large crate of supplies. In truth, Cullen's anger at them had all but evaporated. He understood the need to let off steam, to find joy and humor and meaning in wartime, the need to find distractions in the face of tragedy. He would assign longer duty hours, maybe give a few lectures, but that was it.

Cullen turned with a resigned sigh. Cassandra was speaking to the boy with Varric and Lady Trevelyan listening in. "I must say young man, that was very impressive, though it left you wide open." He looked to the Herald, curious for her reaction, but could no longer read her expression, her features hidden by shadows born of the declining sun.

"It was bloody amazing," Varric interjected, beaming as though someone had handed him a precious and uncut gem. "I've never seen anything like it."

The boy was sweating profusely as he stepped toward them from the other side of the fence and Cullen could see that his arm shook slightly as he set his practice sword aside. Ruan smiled a crooked little smile, a devilish gleam in his wide set eyes. "Aye," he said, voice still pitched on the cusp of adolescence, "but I knew he was worn out and disoriented. Had him off balance and unsure of himself, knew it was the right moment to strike."

Cassandra grunted but grinned ruefully. Cullen could tell she was already growing to like the lad, likely despite herself. "It took a great deal of strength, that's obvious. If he had parried or dodged, you would have been left drained. I dare say it was a brave but risky move and not the sort of mistake you would have lived to make twice."

Ruan smiled wider, suddenly looking much more his age; awkward and eager for approval, as he swept his sweat soaked hair from his face.

"My teacher taught me to strike first, to hit hard, and to fight with out mercy," he said and swung his arms around in a few circles, staving off any cramping.

"Your teacher was wise," Cullen interrupted, drawing their eyes. "But perhaps a bit untried."

The boy stilled and his eyes narrowed. "I had the best sword trainer in all of the Free Marches," Ruan boasted, an edge to his voice, flecks of gold and fire in his dark eyes.

Cullen paced forward and he could feel the Herald's eyes following him; the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, but he kept his gaze locked with the boy's. Cassandra was right, as impressive as the move had been, it was highly risky and dangerous, and Cullen couldn't understand how his mother could allow it.

"You were trained for speed, agility, to outmatch a larger foe, that much is clear," he said sternly."But that requires a great deal of patience and presence of mind. Your opponent may not always be what he seems and that man could have easily gutted you."

Ruan's eyes glittered with amusement, surprising Cullen. "My teacher always told me that true battle requires cunning and ruthlessness, that there is no time for hesitation or second guessing on the battlefield. You either act or you die. I decided to act."

Cullen's lip curled up. "And who is this myserious and all knowing teacher of yours? I'd like to have a word or two with him about the realities of combat."

A slow, devious smile broke out across the boys face. "Be my guest, she's standing right next to you."

A moment of silence as Cullen attempted to process this statement, a sense of dread creeping along his spine and up the collar of his tunic.

Varric laughed, breaking the tension like the snapping of a dry twig, and slapped his hand on the fence with a resounding _thwack_. "Maker, you just can't make shit like this up. You should see the look on your face Curly, priceless."

Cullen turned and met the Herald's stare. Cold, calculating, unflinching, and as deep and fathomless as the Breach in the sky above them. As he watched a grin twitched across her lips then grew until her teeth flashed at him, feral and bright.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the following few days, Cullen watched the Herald closely.

She spent most of her time with Cassandra or Varric, planning for their trip into the field with an almost single minded tenacity, her son never far behind. The Apostate, Solas, kept mostly to himself but appeared at ease during the brief conversations he happened to witness from afar, Cullen even caught the sullen elf smiling at her one afternoon as she proffered an herb he couldn't quite see. According to their Quartermaster, the Herlad had spent an entire afternoon with her son out in the frozen forests around Haven, collecting much needed herbs and other materials.

Cassandra reported that Lady Trevelyan was driven and intelligent, with a head for numbers and complex solutions, with an easy way of speaking to folk that had endeared her to many. The Seeker also said the woman was a difficult individual to garner information from, deftly avoiding answering most personal questions directed her way with the sort of ease and grace Cullen had come to associate with most women of nobility. Their words were often a pretty dance of nonsense and little information, never willing to say anything forthright; it was maddening and Cullen had little patience for it. He imagined that the Seeker found it equally frustrating.

Despite the display and claims made at the training grounds, Cullen had found no evidence of change, nothing to support what her son had said; the Herald remained demure, aloof, and mysterious. If she was secretly some sort of dueling master, she kept it well hidden. She was a puzzle he was increasingly more determined to sort out; it was imperative that they know and understand more about her. For the sake of the Inquisition.

"I suspect you know more about her than you're telling us, Leliana," Cullen said the evening before the Herald and her party were set to depart, his tone slightly accusatory.

He and others had made a few more efforts to waylay and dissuade the Herald from her course but their suggestions had fallen on deaf ears. She was determined to see to matters personally, her son in tow. Cullen found it... admirable if not irrational.

Leliana sighed and came to sit at his side beneath the shadows of the Chantry. The sun was setting, bloody and raw against the snow peaked mountains like a wound, and still he felt that sense of hush and anticipation. A light snow began to fall, brushing softly across his cheeks.

"Not so much as you might think," she said. "The most scandalous thing about her is, obviously, her son. He is just shy of thirteen and she is only twenty-six."

"Maker," Cullen breathed. "I'm assuming the boy isn't the product of some marital contract."

"Hardly, even nobility rarely marry so young," Leliana said, leaning back into the shadows, which welcomed her like a lover's embrace until only the glint of her mail overcoat was visible. "No one is quite sure _who_ the father is, and believe me I have tried every avenue I can think of to divulge the truth. Lady Trevelyan refused to name him then as she clearly refuses to name him now. Eventually, her parents sent her to live with an Uncle in the country where she spent much of her life. Her Uncle died about nine years past in an unfortunate training accident and she remained to care for her Aunt and the estate. My inquiries confirm that she was well loved by the people there but they had little of true interest to report. By all accounts, she lived a peaceful, simple life until she fell from the Fade at the Conclave."

Cullen considered this information in silence for several moments. "You say her parents sent her away, in shame I assume?"

Leliana snorted softly. "Likely, though from what I gather the Lady Janessa was something of her father's favorite; a lovely, intelligent girl with high prospects. Her pregnancy and subsequent secrecy was rumored to have broken his heart, sending him into a sort of social seclusion. The Herald's mother died giving birth to her younger sister, Brenna is – _was_ \- her name, who was still quite young when Janessa was sent away. We have confirmed that both her father and sister were, indeed present at the Temple, supporting some relatives within the Chantry." Her tone had gone stiff and Cullen thought, perhaps, she pitied their Herald –Leliana was not known for her pity nor compassion and it tugged at an answering ache in his breast. He thought, briefly, of his family and how it would feel to lose them after so long apart, then shoved the impulse firmly aside.

"If her family cast her out, why visit them after so many years? Why at the Conclave?" Cullen asked trying to slowly piece bits of the equation into a formula that made any sort of sense at all. He thought, perhaps, that the Lady Trevelyan had merely fallen into the trap of some charming noble dandy who'd taken advantage of her innocence and left her too ashamed to speak the truth. It was hardly an uncommon tale.

"I'm not sure exactly. The Temple is between her Uncle's holdings and her family's estate, perhaps she wished to meet with them on equal footing somewhere, heal broken ties. Cassandra has attempted to glean something about the events from her but has been largely brushed aside. There is clearly a lot of history and pain there, we must tread carefully."

They sat for some time in companionable silence before eventually Leliana rose. "I know you do not trust her, and in truth I rarely trust _anyone,_ but I… sense something in her. I suppose, in some ways, she reminds me of myself." Cullen looked up, clearly surprised. Leliana laughed a little and the sound was rather sad. "I believe her motivations for helping us are pure and I find myself catching glimpses of the woman beneath that impressive armor of manners and decorum."

"Oh?" he grunted, licking at cold lips. "And what sort of woman is that?"

Cullen caught the flash of teeth in the growing darkness, more a snarl than a smile. "A woman carrying a great deal of pain and loss who is seeking a second chance, somewhere to belong. Give her a chance Cullen, she has earned that much from us."

He could think of nothing to say and she left him shortly after to be alone, once more, with his muddled thoughts. The more he knew of their Herald, the less he understood her. He thought of her smile –soft and secret, a moment that felt stolen- and realized what the look in her eyes had held:

Hope. Fragile, desperate hope.

Cullen sat there for a long, long while, until the moon was high in the sky and he could no longer bear the weight of the watching stars.

* * *

The next morning Cullen entered their meager stables before dawn, intent on checking that all was in order for perhaps the hundredth time that week. Others could have seen to the job, but in the absence of sleep he needed something to keep his mind busy. It took him several moments of glancing dumbly at an extensive list of supplies to realize he was not alone.

He looked up sharply at the sound of shuffling boots and muttered words, gentle and indistinct. Frowning, he walked toward the back of the stable, seeking the source, and froze as he caught sight of the Herald cooing affectionately to a brown mare.

Cullen wouldn't have believed it was her save for the unmistakable shock of her hair, it's complicated plaits made brilliant in the faint light of a lantern. The woolen gown was gone, replaced by close fitted trousers, a white linen shirt that fell to mid-thigh and a tight leather girdle that hugged the curve of hips and waist.

More importantly, the woman was _bristling_ with weapons. A sword and dirk hung at her belt and two long daggers crossed over her back in supple leather sheaths, hilts gleaming. Her hand, pale and long fingered, ran down the bridge of the horse's nose as it nudged at her affectionately. She made soothing sounds as she lifted a brush and smoothed it down the horse's neck in a steady, practiced motion. In the flickering light her features were calm, relaxed – _and lovely_ , his mind supplied unbidden.

She must have felt his stare because she spun toward him sharply in the next moment, eyes wide. Cullen flushed, feeling, once again, as though he'd intruded on a private moment.

"Commander," she said with a swallow, her eyes immediately guarded. They studied each other for a long moment in the half-light, a strange thread of connection humming between them, before she turned back to her task. The gentle swoop of the brush was loud in the silence. "I thought I was alone."

"I apologize, I didn't mean to startle you," he said and took a few cautious steps toward her, feeling as though he should bridge the gap between them somehow. She seemed tense, uneasy in his presence. "I, well, I feel I should apologize."

She glanced at him sideways. "For what, precisely?"

Cullen ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. Maker, he had no idea what to say to this strange woman. "Well, for being less than welcoming perhaps."

The corner of her mouth quirked up and again he was struck by how different she seemed. It wasn't just the clothing and weapons, it was the way in which she moved, her stance and the posture of her shoulders. She was poised like a dancer, light on the heels of her black leather boots.

"I understand the circumstances were… difficult. I don't blame you for questioning me."

"Still, I should not have been so quick to dismiss you and your intentions," he said, forcing down his lingering pride. It was important he and the Herald were able to work with one another, more important than his ego certainly.

The sweep of the brush paused. "Sometimes it is best to seem less than you are," she said quietly, still not looking at him. "To seem weaker and smaller. People misjudge, dismiss; it is as much my fault as yours, Commander."

Cullen frowned at this, trying to divulge her meaning. Were the manners and decorum an act? A pretty mask to be removed when necessary? He watched as she started brushing again, her knuckles white on the handle.

"I said before that you could trust us, my lady, and I meant it."

The Herald made a noise, almost like a scoff, and she set the brush aside, finally turning to face him. Her eyes searched his face with such an intense amount of scrutiny that the hairs on his arms and neck stood on end. Her face was sharp angles and smooth skin, her eyes such an unusual color somewhere between green and gold. There was stubbornness and vulnerability warring for purchase and he found himself holding his breath. He let it out through his nose.

"You are a good man, Commander," she said at last, sounding almost reluctant to admit it. "I will attempt to be more… _forthright_ with you in the future. It has been a difficult few weeks, I have not been myself."

"I am sorry for the loss of your family," he blurted, unsettled.

She sighed and looked down, hands braced on her slim hips. "Thank you I had not… seen them for many years. I'd hoped –well, I suppose it doesn't matter what I hoped, it is far too late now." Her tone was hard, difficult to read.

She made to step past him and he shifted away. He caught the scent of leather, polishing oil, and Elfroot with an undertone of something delicate, floral almost.

"Your son, did you truly teach him to fight?" He wasn't sure what made him ask, he certainly hadn't meant to, but something about her shifted the world around him so that he felt as though he were constantly standing on uneven ground.

The Herald paused, silhouetted in the morning light spilling from the open stable doors. Haven was waking up, bristling with activity and purpose, but it felt distant somehow. Cullen felt strangely apart , as though he were looking at the scene from above, floating amongst the rafters.

She glanced back at him. "Everyone should have the means to protect themselves, Commander, someone once taught me a harsh lesson about weakness and naivety. I will not allow the same to happen to my son." She gave him a final glance, a slight bow of her head, then turned away. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, the others will be waiting for me."

"My lady," he muttered, and she was gone, swept away by the current of activity outside.

Cullen stood for a moment longer. He thought maybe he understood why she'd let her son fight that day in the training grounds, why it was important that they see what he - _she-_ was capable of. Leliana had been right –as much as he hated to admit it:

The woman was a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

A week after her departure, Cullen received a letter from the Herald. He was more than a little surprised that she had written to him _directly._ He certainly hadn't expected it. Feeling oddly eager, he broke the seal over his desk late one evening –had Leliana resealed it or had she truly not read it?- and observed the neat, elegant script. A small hand drawn map fell to the table and he glanced at it; several places were marked and detailed and he set it aside.

 _Commander Cullen_ ,

 _The Hinterlands are worse than I imagined. The fighting between the Mages and Templars has ravaged the villages here, almost daily we encounter the remnants of their handiwork. Usually in the form of mutilated bodies and burnt homes. I have met with Mother Giselle; she has some interesting thoughts on how we might deal with the Chantry that I have already explained in my letter to Leliana. Her advice seems sound, but it could be risky; she should be on her way to Haven and can explain the situation further upon her arrival._

 _Originally we had planned on a short journey, several weeks perhaps, but after seeing the state of things I believe it is in the best interests of the Inquisition that we remain in the area and attempt to stabilize it. We've met with a Horse Master by the name of Dennet who is willing to supply the Inquisition with horses (they are very fine animals, I have looked them over myself) in exchange for some help with aggressive wolves in the area as well as the building of a few watch towers, which I suppose is the true purpose of my letter. The area is without even the most basic defenses, I've included a map of where I believe such structures would serve best. I hope this is acceptable to you._

 _We've information about where the Templars are holed up and will be investigating tomorrow, we will update you soon._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Lady Janessa Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste._

 _P.S: We've sealed two Fade rifts within the area with reports of several more, it is becoming easier to close them, thank Andraste._

Cullen read the letter several times, first to ensure he understood its contents, then to try and garner some understanding of the woman behind the words. He allowed himself to imagine the Herald at a camp somewhere, scrawling her letters carefully and precisely by the light of a cheery camp fire, maybe with that rare, unguarded expression on her face. He smiled a little to himself and put the letter aside and set about writing his response.

 _Lady Trevelyan,_

 _The reports from our men in the area have been harrowing. It is reprehensible that tensions between Mages and Templars have been allowed to escalate to such a degree._ _I agree that it is within the Inquisition's best interests to help where others have failed so dismally. We must be a beacon of hope to the people of Thedas in these dark times; your work will lend credence to our cause._

 _I will confirm with Leliana and Josephine that the locations you have marked are adequate and feasible and organize men and materials for their construction at once. Reliable mounts are worth nearly any price and I thank you for your efforts to secure them._

 _Please take care with engaging the Templars and Mages, avoid taking unnecessary risks if you can. Our organization is nothing without you and your mark._

 _Sincere Regards,_

 _Commander Cullen Rutherford_


End file.
